


Redbeard

by Phoenix1685



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:47:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27509320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenix1685/pseuds/Phoenix1685
Kudos: 7





	Redbeard

**Warnings: panic attack**

"Sherlock!"

From his room, Sherlock heard John come in through the front door, as he would have even if he hadn't called out. His footsteps were distinct to Sherlock.

But there was a different noise.

Sherlock pressed his ear against the door and listened to the rustling of John moving around, muttering to himself.

Listening closer, Sherlock could hear tapping, a lot of tapping on the floor, almost like a....

...no, that's stupid.

Sherlock swung open the door, taking in the scene around him.

The only thing different from the last time he saw the room was John was standing in the middle of it, with a rather large box that had holes in the top.

The box was were the tapping was coming from, now accompanied by scratching.

"Guessing whatever is in there is either alive or an AI that's gone rogue. One of those is a 7, the other a mere 3. Don't disappoint me, John."

John's smile faltered slightly but he soon regained it, tapping on the box.

"Why don't you see for yourself." He smiled, stepping back.

Sherlock looked at John quizzically, trying to deduce what was in the box. Unfortunately, over the years, John has perfected his face to show no information.

It was rather frustrating when he did that.

So, Sherlock turned to the box.

It was brown, slightly crinkled and had three perfectly circular holes at every side along the top; breathing holes. Conclusion: it was a 3.

"Dull." Sherlock grumbled, turning to walk back to his room.

"Sherlock wait!"

"Ughhhhhhhhhh!" Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes like a child, turning back to John. "Whaaaat?"

"Just...look inside the box."

Sherlock remained stoic, feet firmly against the ground, giving a clear message: not worth my time.

"Please?" John gave his best puppy dog eyes.

This staring contest continued in silence, each one too stubborn to back down.

"... Ugh, fine." Sherlock mumbled. He hated how little he could resist John's pleading look.

On one side was a symbol: a faded green bone, like one a cartoon dog would have. The website below was too faded to make out.

The box was moving slightly, and whatever was inside was still scratching at the inside, trying to get out.

Finally, Sherlock crouched so he was at level height with the box, steeping his fingers on his chin in thought.

All the evidence was pointing to one conclusion, but that one conclusion couldn't be possible.

_When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth._

He hated when his own arguments turned against him.

"Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock, stop trying to deduce the box and just open the bloody thing!"

Sherlock sighed, standing up and began ripping at the brown tape, staring at how it brought up some of the cardboard.

Upon hearing the rip, whatever was inside began scratching more aggressively...and barking.

_That bark sounds so familiar._

Sherlock stepped back from the box, feeling his chest tighten. There was no way, no way in hell, that it was him.

"J-uh, John?" Sherlock mentally cursed at how many octaves higher his voice had rose.

"Open the box, Sherlock." John spoke, gentler than his previous tone.

_Okay, okay, okay...just open...the box..._

Sherlock crouched, reaching out and hesitantly pulled back the rest of the tape, resisting from backing away at another loud _rooff!_

Now, all that was left was to open the side flaps, directly in front of him.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock pulled open the flaps.

The creature inside bounded out, excited to be free of its carboard cage. In a blur of rusted red, it ran around the room, knocking over lamps and mugs from tables and letting loose stacks of paper into the air.

John cursed, trying to grab blur. Unfortunately, John's reflexes weren't quick enough and the blur bounded onto Sherlock's chest, pushing him to his back to stand on top of him.

"...Redbeard?" Sherlock whispered.

Logic finally came out of the shadows. Redbeard had never existed, only a figment of Sherlock's childhood imagination, but what Sherlock had imagined was right infront of him.

An Irish Setter stood on his chest, panting and staring Sherlock dead in the eye.

For a moment, nothing else existed to Sherlock as he stared into the hazel eyes of what he thought for years to be his only friend he had as a child.

Redbeard's rusty curls reflected his own hairstyle: uncontrollable and scruffy to the point where it looked styled over careless. His paws pressed down on his chest, mirroring the tightness the detective had felt beforehand. The dull claws dug into his skin, not painfully, but in a strangely comforting way.

Everything screamed Redbeard almost as much as everything screamed not.

This couldn't be Redbeard. Redbeard was dead.

...correction, Redbeard never existed.

"Uh... John?" Sherlock finally broke eye contact with the dog to see John smiling at him, his phone held up suspiciously.

"Surprise!" John exclaimed happily, grinning from ear to ear.

"Uhh..." For once, the great Sherlock Holmes was at a loss for words.

"You told me once that the dog you always wanted, the one you imagined, Redbeard, was an Irish Setter so... I got you one! You always wanted a dog."

The confidence in John's voice began to waver as Sherlock's expression remained uneasy, almost scared.

"... Okay...here, boy, c'mon." John whistled, and the dog bounded off Sherlock's chest and over to John, who had a squeaky toy in his hand.

As the dog left his chest, Sherlock took a moment to breathe. To drown out the squeaks of the toy John had, to ignore the flashes of red of the dog's fur, to close his eyes and just _breathe._

Felt like forever since he did that.

Finally, Sherlock opened his eyes and slowly sat up, ignoring the curled red fur the dog had shed on him.

"You okay, Sherlock?" John's voice came from his chair, the dog layed down at his feet, chewing on his squeaky toy, which let out indignant _squeak_ s with every bite.

"You-" Sherlock swallowed around the break in his voice. "You, uh...got me a dog."

"Yup." John reached down and ruffled the dog's head, making it perk up at the attention.

"... Why, exactly?"

"Like I said, you always wanted a dog, and I thought the one you imagined as a child would be the one you wanted so-"

"-I imagined a dog as a replacement for my _human_ best friend, who was drowned by my little sister."

"... Right, yeah...maybe not such a good idea."

Sherlock stared at the panting body of rusted fluff at John's feet, trying to blink back shadow's of his old friend's memory.

_Redbeard._

"Excuse me." Sherlock mumbled, ignoring the crack in his voice and abruptly standing and stalking to his room, trying not to give away how close he was to breaking.

Sherlock slammed his door behind him, pressing his back against it as if stopping an intruder from getting in.

A soft sob escaped his lips as his knees turned to jelly and he slid down the door until he was sat, curled up with his knees to his chest, snaking his arms around his knees and burying his face in his knees.

He bit his lip, hard, trying to silence his crying as flashback after flashback raced through his head, that damned stupid _son_ g playing over and over and over and for the love of God, shut it _up-_

"Sherlock, can you let me in please."

No, no, nonononono he did this, he brought this back, he can't be trusted.

"Fuck off." Sherlock gasped through the tightening of his chest. He ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair, refusing to close his eyes.

Every time he blinked, he was back at that lake, wooden sword in hand.

_"Come on, Redbeard!"_

"Shut up, shut up, stop thinking, just _stop!_ " Sherlock whispered to himself, desperately trying to blank his mind. It was so much harder to wipe his thoughts when he was panicking.

_No, not panicking, this is not another attack, it will not be another attack._

The second he accepts he's having and attack, the second it become real.

And Sherlock doesn't know if he can handle it being real.

He was a detective, for God's sake! A high-functioning sociopath with an IQ of 190, he should not be brought to his trembling knees by something so _petty_ as a panic attack.

"Sherlock, come on." John was still at the door. Maybe he can help me calm down...

_No! Can't be trusted! Can't be trusted! Can'tbetrusted!_

"Go away, John, please." Sherlock was reduced to whimpers as his chest continued to tighten, the steely grip of anxiety reducing him to breathlessness.

_I that am lost, oh who will find me?_

Breathe, you idiot. Easy. In, out. In, out.

_Deep down below the old beech tree._

Shut up. In, out. In, out.

_Help succour me now the east wind blows._

God, why can't I fucking **breathe-**

_Sixteen by sixteen, brother, and under we go!_

Shut up, sister, shut up, please just "shut up."

"I'm not talking, Sherlock. Open the door."

"Can't breathe."

"What?"

"Can't breathe-" Sherlock wheezed, now feeling like the simple, automatic task of taking in a single atom of oxygen was impossible, simply impossible.

How could anyone breathe with elephant standing on their chest?

_I that am lost-_

Sherlock clamped his hands over his ears.

- _oh, who will find me?_

Head tilted up, still trying to gulp down any air possible. Impossible.

_Deep down below the old beech tree._

John was saying something. Maybe he could hear if he wasn't talking underwater.

_Help succour me now-_

Underwater. Muffled. Sinking. Drowning. Can't breathe, can't breathe, oh god, oh god-

_-the east wind blows._

The East Wind blew him over, now so weak and shaky he just went with it, falling to his side in his ball of breathless panic.

_Sixteen by sixteen, brother_

_'_ The human body can't live three minutes without oxygen. Eternity has been a long time'. Sherlock's head began to float, away from this tightness, away from the music away from John banging on the door.

_-and under we go!_

\-------------------------------

Sherlock gasped away, relishing in the feeling of oxygen flowing through his lungs.

It felt like forever since he had done that.

The door opened and John walked in carrying a tray with a bowl of porridge and blueberries and a glass of orange juice, which he set on the bedside table before looking over at him.

"Oh, you're awake."

Sherlock nodded, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He was barefoot and in his night clothes. The thought of John dressing him cause a light splash of pink to paint his cheeks.

"Uh..." Sherlock cleared his throat and padded over to the other side of the bed, sitting on the edge of it. "...what happened?"

"You had a panic attack."

Sherlock cursed as the memories flashed back.

"Pathetic." Sherlock grumbled, swinging his leg and kicking his heel against the leg post.

"No...no, Sherlock. It's natural, and it's my fault-"

"-how is it your fault?"

"I should've known!" John sighed, plopping down next to Sherlock on the bed. "I should've thought that the dog would trigger old memories."

The pair sat in silence. Sherlock didn't believe John was at fault yet he knew that, no matter what he said, he would continue to believe it to be so.

"Uh, how did I get here?"

"Oh, well, you passed out against the door so I couldn't kick it in, so I called Lestrade and he brought a screwdriver, because for some reason we don't have one in the house. We took the door off its hinges to get to ya."

"Right..." Sherlock mumbled, still quite miffed that he had a breakdown and passed out because of a dumb dog. "How long have I been out for."

"Overnight." John answered, picking up the bowl of porridge and handing it to Sherlock, along with a spoon. "So around 20 ours, ish."

"Jesus." Sherlock sighed, nibbling at his porridge. "New record."

"This has happened before?"

"A couple times." Sherlock answered, putting his porrige bowl on the floor. "First time was in college. I've always had panic attacks but none as extreme as this one. You see, this boy I liked, _really_ liked, once came up to me and started talking to me. At first I was hopeful, that maybe he liked me back, but..." Sherlock paused, wetting his lips. "...but then he started laughing, and I heard his friends laughing from behind me. And when I turned...they all had their cameras out, recording the entire thing. I ran. I ran out of there and into my dorm, locking myself in my room and...yeah, same story as this, pretty much." Sherlock finished, staring at his hands.

"God, Sherlock, I'm so sorry." Another splash of pink as John took Sherlock's hand in his own.

"Uh, yeah, um." Sherlock cleared his throat. "When Mycroft found out, he took me to a doctor's and they diagnosed me with a panic disorder. I should be taking medication for it but, ya know-"

"-slows you down, yeah." John nodded, his thumb absently tracing over Sherlock's bony knuckles.

The pair sat like that for a while, John lost in thought as Sherlock was internally freaking out, watching from his peripheral vision the thumb tracing his knuckles, back and forth, back and forth, and any minute now he's going to laugh and they're going to be watching and-

"-uh, I'm sorry, could you not, uh..." Sherlock half whispered, quickly taking his hand back and holding it to his chest protectively. John's eyes widened.

"Oh, right, of course. I apologize, Sherlock. I, uh... I will leave you to your porridge." And with that, John left the room closing the door behind him.

Sherlock sat still, staring at the door. He mentally cursed himself - all John was doing was a simple show off affection and comfort and Sherlock had freaked out, again.

Maybe this panic disorder really did need dealing with.

Sherlock stood and walked to his closet, pulling out the box from the bottom and sitting back on the bed. Opening the box, Sherlock stared at the bottle of baby blue pills.

It had been years since he's done that.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock opened the baby-proofed bottle, tipping a single pill into his hand, rolling it between his thumb as his palm, before grabbing the glass of orange juice, sticking the pill at the back of his tounge and swallowing it down before he could change his mind.

Sherlock paused, taking in the faint medical taste mixed with the juice in his mouth.

One step closer to recovery.

Smiling to himself, Sherlock wolfed down the rest of his porridge and juice before placing the bowl and glass on the tray and opening the door, stepping out into the kitchen.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed as if surprised to see him. He watched as Sherlock put the tray on the side and began rinsing the bowl. "You finished the breakfast I made you."

"Not just that." Sherlock smiled, putting down the half washed bowl and walking over to grab John's hand. "I took my panic medication."

"You took-..holy god, Sherlock, that's great! Why did you do that, you said it slowed you down."

"Well..." Sherlock looked down, before looking back up. "Something's are worth it for a dog."


End file.
